


all that heaven will allow

by redandgold



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, basically 4k of xabi being an idiot tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 01:01:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10425735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redandgold/pseuds/redandgold
Summary: Steven asks Xabi a question.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltstreets](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltstreets/gifts).



>   
> _"Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us._  
>  These, our bodies, possessed by light.  
> Tell me we’ll never get used to it."  
> \- Richard Siken
> 
>     
> 

Xabi sends Steven a single text when he's promoted to first-team manager: _congratulations_.

Steven replies not thirty seconds later, even though it's past midnight and he ought to be sleeping. _Thanks mate._ A shadow of a smile crosses Xabi's face and he makes to put it down when it buzzes again. _I have a question._

Before the third text comes in, Xabi flicks on silent mode and slides the phone back in his pocket where it nestles against the flat of his palm, quiet and unmoving.

 

 

 

This is how it starts:

Steven's grip is firm as he shakes Xabi's hand and introduces himself. "I know who you are," Xabi says, and Steven is startled into a laugh of embarrassed gratification.

"I guess you would."

"You play very well." Xabi gestures to the Melwood pitch behind them. Steven rubs the back of his neck as he turns to look, and just that one motion - the way his fingers curl and press into his skin, tired and warm - makes Xabi think, _oh._

 

 

 

He watches their first game - not, he tells himself, because he cares, but because he has nothing else to do. Steven already looks at home in his sharp suit and red tie, the Liverbird over his chest a reflection of everything beneath. Xabi knows him so well that he can almost predict what Steven is going to do before he does it. How his mouth draws into a thin line before he starts to yell, how he shoves his hands into his pockets so that no one will see him digging his nails into his palms. He can even see Steven in the way that Liverpool play, spilling their guts onto the field, staining it red, as if that will be enough.

As it happens, as it always does with Liverpool, it isn't. They lose by a goal to West Ham and Xabi watches the expression on Steven's face fracture, jagged edges amplified by grotesque high definition.

He turns the television off before the post-match press conference. That wouldn't do either of them any good, having to listen to Steven describe the club as 'we', having to think about how that same word pops into his head sooner than any other, the fact that he's said so many slogans in his life but, somehow, _you'll never walk alone_ still comes the closest to sounding like he means it.

 

 

 

Carra's in Madrid the same time he is, so Xabi asks him to lunch one day. He's always liked Carra in his unruffled bluntness and the many long-winded arguments about tackling that made everyone leave the dressing room. Carra is as exuberant as ever, slapping him on the back with enough force to send his chair toppling, before taking a seat opposite him.

"Has he not texted you since?" he asks abruptly in the middle of Xabi's rambling spiel about Spain in the fall.

Xabi pauses and shrugs. Carra twists his lips in something like annoyance, leans back in his seat and gives Xabi a stare that unsettles him.

"You need to stop doing this," Carra sighs.

Xabi raises an eyebrow. It's the 'I don't know what you mean' look that he's spent years perfecting. He doesn't know whether it's to wind up Carra or hide things from himself.

"Well. Both of you need to stop doing this. But you especially, Alonso."

"I have no intentions of becoming a manager," Xabi says automatically. Like he's in a press conference and the question's been asked a million times. _I just plan to relax for some time. Insert charming joke about not having to think about football anymore here. We will see what happens in the future._

Carra puts his chin in his hand and looks up at him, his eyes dark with a sympathy that evades understanding. And of course he wouldn't, Xabi thinks, suddenly vindictive, even though Carra's been nothing but kind. He and Steven and even his friend Neville from TV; they have never had to tread paths that made not-loving a necessity rather than a choice.

"Xabi." The word makes him soft again, and he buries his resentment under the voice of the Kop, still fresh and thundering in his ears after so long. "You don't always have to leave."

 

 

 

This is how it starts:

He's playing at Anfield for the first time and it's loud, it's so loud, more than Sociedad could ever have given and more than he might be able to gather in his arms before it slips out of his grasp. Kewell chests the ball down to Steven, and then. And then something happens that even Xabi doesn't quite know how to explain, but he sees the space outside the box and knows what's coming.

He runs as Steven hits the ball, a beautiful side-footed flick made almost in expectation, not hope. It falls perfectly for Xabi and he lashes it into the corner of the net, Lehmann's fingertips only really ever in vain. He sets off in a run so euphoric he almost forgets himself, jumping up and clicking his heels together like Singing in the (bloody) Rain. He can hear his name spilling from the lips of the shirts of red, and not just the supporters but _Xabi, Xabi_ , from the man whose voice he has already written into memory.

"Great pass," he says, truthfully, whispered into Steven's ear as he presses his jaw close, thankful for scoring goals if only it meant an excuse to feel Steven's skin warm under his.

"Better goal," Steven shrugs and grins at him like he actually means it. He puts his arm around Xabi's shoulders, chaste. For one moment they're both quiet, not saying anything, not having to. Then Steven jogs back into position and Xabi watches him go. His heart crumbles a little in his mouth.

 

 

 

Of course he finds himself back here. It's brighter than he remembers, but then most of his images were taken at night and filled with the starkness of red on green. He sees the spires of the mosque from the window of the cab stretching into the indifferent-coloured sky above. Liverpool (not _we_ ) are playing later. He knows this instinctively, the way fans always know when their team is playing even without writing it down. 

Perhaps it's the virtue of being in another city, both foreign and familiar, that makes him stop just outside the hotel and buy a Sim card. He types the number in. Instinct, again. There's nothing to read into it.

_Good luck for later, Steven_

He doesn't expect a reply immediately - what do managers do before games? - but still it comes. _Who's this?_ The question makes his mouth twitch in irrational annoyance, as if Steven should have known it was him from a generic message and a +90 number.  

He presses _dial_.

Steven picks up on the second ring and says "hello?" and Xabi feels his throat hitch, like he's a horse on the edge of a cliff pulling up short and hoping he doesn't fall. Except maybe that analogy doesn't work if he's already falling. Stevie's voice is the same craggy mountains and loose curls; he pauses to listen and almost forgets to breathe.

"Who's this?" Steven asks again.

"Xabi." It's torn from him like a confession. He hears Steven on the other end of the line, many miles away, stop.

He'd tried to call after Xabi had turned down the offer, but Xabi hadn't picked up the phone, and after that Steven had stopped texting. "Steven," Xabi says, now, feeling it float and nestle in the silence that grows ever too long. "I just wanted to wish you good luck."

He knows that Steven's trying not to be reproachful or hurt or anything that will take his focus off the game. He's always been good at doing that, Steven, Liverpool first and feelings second (although it's all the same in the end). Finally Steven sighs and says, "thanks."

Xabi hears the reproach and hurt anyway. He swallows. "You should prepare for the game. I'm sorry."

 _For -,_ he doesn't add.

Steven pauses, like he's thinking. Xabi can imagine his eyes flicking downwards, creases on his forehead deepening. He's almost hung up when Steven says, "call you after, then?"

Xabi smiles. "Yes. That would be good."

"Cheers, mate."

Xabi puts the phone down and looks out the window. The stadium is nestled just on the horizon, and he can just make out the curved roof and running track. The starkness of red on green.

 

 

 

This is how it starts:

Steven Gerrard kisses Xabi Alonso on international television in Istanbul.

But everyone already knows that.

 

 

 

Some journalists catch him in the airport, which surprises him a little, since he didn't think he'd still be interesting. "Xabi, what do you think of Liverpool's season? Is Steven Gerrard doing a good job? Do you think you'll win the league?" they ask, eyes wide, recorders waiting. It is, he supposes, amusing that they only ask about one team, when his entire career has been about proving otherwise.

( _Why did you leave?_ Steven had asked, once. Xabi had shrugged. _Does it matter?_ )

"I told them you were doing a terrible job," he calls Steven when he gets off the plane. Steven laughs. It makes Xabi laugh too.

"Maybe I'd do better if I had help," he replies. Not accusatory, or demanding, but. Wistful. Like unkept promises.

"Stevie."

Steven holds up his metaphorical hands. "Just kidding."

Xabi picks his next words slowly. "They will never love me as much as they love you."

"What does that matter?" Steven's voice is harsh, even down the crackly line. "Why do you care what they think when I - "

"Don't make this harder. Please."

Xabi bites his lip at the surly reticence that follows and wishes he didn't have to fuck things up so badly all of the time. Wishes he could just stop running. Once.

"How is the team?" he asks instead.

Steven's voice takes a while to drag itself back to the phone. "All right." He exhales. "If you don't care, Xabi, why do you ask?"

"I'm asking after you," he starts, but Steven isn't having any of it.

"Do you love us?"

The _us_ again, the _we_ , the _me_ hidden and unwilling to be uncovered. Xabi holds the phone tight, whispers, "I love everything about you," even though they both know that's not quite the same thing.

 

 

 

Munich is a pale colour this time of year. Xabi toes the cobbled streets with a familiarity he's always questioned himself about, feeling the cool air settle around his shoulders. He winds up outside a brown door off a street so stereotypically German that only one person could live here.

"Xabi." Philipp raises an eyebrow but lets him in anyway. His living room is white and airy and satisfies Xabi in its put-together symmetry for no particular reason, as it always does. Philipp gestures to the sofa and Xabi sits, looking at him and almost smiling at the way he's not gotten older, just grown.

"What's the matter?"

"I was in the neighbourhood," Xabi begins, but this is Philipp, who sees through him in a strange, almost reflective way, and he ends up changing tact the moment Philipp tilts his head. "Did you love Bayern?"

"That's an odd question."

"I know. It's a little silly."

"No, I mean - " Philipp frowns. "You asked 'did', not 'do'."

"Oh." Xabi looks at his hands and feels like he shouldn't have come, like it annoys him when one slip can be so ridiculously revealing. But it's far too late, and anyway he has a sneaking suspicion that it's not something Philipp didn't already know. "Well. Do you?"

"Yes," Philipp replies immediately. Like it's built-into him. Xabi supposes it is, a little.

"Would you have left, if - " he gestures.

Philipp looks up at him and smiles, that crooked grin that's awfully soft in a way Xabi isn't sure is entirely intentional. "Odd question," he says again.

There aren't that many people in the world who make Xabi feel like a schoolboy again, staring at his maths homework and feeling stupid. He flushes. "What now?"

"Well. That's not the point, see." Philipp looks almost pleased, like he's happy Xabi has finally sat down and begun to work it out. "The point is if I would have come back."

 _Oh._ "What if they don't ask you back?" he tries to joke, but Philipp shakes his head.

"That's not the way it works." Xabi winces at the silent _you know this_ tacked on at the end. He thinks of Steven, of that third text and the question mark hanging in between them like a ghost.

"Can I ask a question now?" Philipp leans forward. His eyes are bright, probably because he already knows the answer. "Why are you really in Munich?"

Xabi's throat is strangely dry. He says, "I need a ticket."

 

 

 

This is how it starts:

Steven smiles wanly. "Congratulations."

"Stevie." Xabi reaches for Steven's wrist, but Steven pulls away, and Xabi draws back. "Don't be like this."

"Haven't you given up the right to tell me what to do." Not a question but a flat statement, more spiteful than Xabi could have ever imagined Steven being. It tramples on his lungs.

"I - "

He begins to explain, but Steven cuts him off before any word about Rafa or Gareth Barry or it being the right time. He knows Xabi far too well not to figure exactly what he's going to say next.

"Save it, Xabi. You don't have to lie to me too."

It is simpler for him, see. Red and not-red. If you want to stay, all you have to do is stay. It does not work like that for everyone, Xabi wants to tell him, though he knows he wouldn't listen anyhow. Sometimes trying to stay is more frightening than trying to leave. Sometimes wanting to love is so much harder than simply loving.

Regret, he thinks, does not become him.

 

 

 

It's the first Champions' League semi-final Liverpool have been in for a very long time. It's the first Liverpool game Xabi has been to for a very long time. (It's a Liverpool game, not a Bayern Munich game, and understanding that difference seems absurdly important to him.) He's sitting with the home fans because, predictably, all the away tickets have been sold, but Philipp has managed to stick him in the North Stand, close to the strains of a familiar song and some of them still wearing their Liverbird crests in defiance of etiquette.

The players are walking on just as Xabi takes his seat, scarf wrapped around his face and newsboy cap pulled low over his eyes. Henderson looks more comfortable with the armband than he's ever been. Everyone looks good, ready to fight, to go. Xabi has barely glanced at the Bayern players (although he's fairly sure Thomas looked up and winked at him, and it's not even like it would be unthinkable).

The next ninety minutes are a study of brilliant, breathtaking, end to end football. Liverpool are magnificent. Xabi didn't think he would miss football and yet, watching them fly, he can feel the ache in the soles of his feet. Hendo to Ads to Bobby. He isn't sure why he's using their nicknames, or if he's even earned the right to, but it slips into his vocabulary like it was always what he was supposed to say. When Phil puts in the first goal it's all he can do not to leave his seat. Only the scowls from the old German men around him force him to unclench his fist, and even then, there's a fire burning where his heart is supposed to be.

The next ninety minutes are also a study of how not to look at the dugout. Xabi is drawn into the game but he sees Steven written everywhere - he sees Steven and _him_ written everywhere - the grit and steel of two penalties against Chelsea, the dizzying salvation of the ninetieth minute at Wembley. It's like when he first watched them on television but it's even more real. Like if he squints hard enough _14_ on the field wouldn't have _Henderson_ written over it. Like Steven could pull off his suit, run onto the pitch, and everything would be all right again.

Xabi's stomach lurches and he has to close his eyes for a bit. At half time he finds himself holding his phone and typing _I miss this I miss us I miss you_ thendeleting all of it, punching the backspace button as if it's something cathartic.

Bayern pull one back but it doesn't really matter. Liverpool have come to one of the most formidable homes in Europe and taken an away goal. Xabi stays in his seat long after the Bayern supporters have left, listening to the Liverpool fans clapping their team even after everyone's disappeared down the tunnel. Remembering how they once used to do that for him.

_I miss you do you need me do you love me_

A warden touches his arm. Xabi looks up and sees a shock of recognition flicker across the man's face. He puts a finger to his lips, stands up, and disappears down the stairs.

They must be doing press now. Xabi thinks of Steven, forehead pinched as he mumbles something he hopes the reporters won't take out of context. "We're happy with that," he must be saying. "It sets us up nicely for the return leg." Xabi can remember the press tunnel and the mixed zone and thinks of himself (in red), hands behind his back, fresh-faced and struggling through English while Steven stands next to him, nudging him on.

Thomas calls him just as he's getting out of the stadium. "Fips told me you were in town. Wanna swing by the dressing rooms?"

"You don't need me there," Xabi says truthfully. He can't really be any other way with Thomas, which he supposes he's grateful for, at times.

Thomas sighs, all theatrical. "Yes. I suppose you're right." Xabi can imagine him waggling his eyebrows. "It's not like opposition managers are guaranteed to be there, to be fair."

Xabi hangs up and wonders just when the whole fucking world took an interest in his love life.

 

 

 

This is how it starts:

It takes seven years but he returns in the end, to the Kop that embraces him like the prodigal son. Steven had sounded hesitant over the phone but he had said yes within five seconds and dealt with Bayern only later.

They play so well together that Xabi marvels. Steven still knows exactly where he will be and he still knows exactly where Steven will be. Seven years and telepathy never really stops. He wafts the ball forward, watches Steven charge it down, hints of red-specked bulldog shining through the black-shirted charity. He thinks he could watch Steven every minute of every day.

In the post-match presser he says, "it was great to be back home." It's a small thank you, the least he can do for the fans, and maybe for his always-skipper as well.

Later, Steven comes up to him at the bar. He's drunk and grinning and Xabi curses the way it still causes his chest to shudder to a halt. "W'nice today," he slurs. "Playingwithyouagain."

"Yes," Xabi agrees without having to lie. "It was."

Steven turns his face up towards him, his brown eyes searching for something. Xabi melts and lets him. Opens up like a treasure chest, _I'm sorry_ kept in his mouth but spread everywhere else, if Steven only wants to look.

"D'you wanna come back to mine?" Steven mutters.

Once, another time, Xabi would have said yes. Really. Now he waves his hand at Carra standing by the pool table. "Drive Stevie home, will you? He's in terrible condition."

Carra gives him an OK sign. Xabi puts down his glass and allows himself one moment of weakness (just one, really), places his hand on Steven's shoulder on the pretext of setting him upright. No goal for an excuse this time, only the stilted silence of a lonely heart.

On the drive back to the hotel Xabi puts on the radio. It's one of those old soft rock stations Steven used to love listening to, Phil Collins and all of that. Don Henley is on. _Forgiveness. Forgiveness._ Xabi digs his fingers into the steering wheel and looks steadily ahead, as he always has done. _Even if. Even if you don't love me anymore._

 

 

 

Carra takes so long to pick up the phone that Xabi begins to wonder what he's doing when the short, gruff Scouse accent finally comes on the line. "What?" he snaps. "I'm busy."

"You're always busy," Xabi points out.

Carra's voice changes immediately. "Shut up, Alonso, I didn't know it was you. You've got so many fucking numbers it's hard to keep track."

"I'm hurt."

"No, you're not." Carra pauses. "Why did you call, Xabi? And don't give me any of that polite bullshit now, d'you hear."

"I needed to know something."

"I can't tell you if you don't ask, you mysterious Spanish wanker."

"Carra."

He takes a breath and sighs.

"Yes, of course, yes."

 

 

 

It's a straight drive from the airport but Xabi turns into Queens Drive then up past all the Breck roads, till it's close enough to touch. He doesn't get out or go in but crawls by, slow, catching a flash of the statue through the gold-trimmed gates. He still dreams about matchdays, he still dreams in one colour. Sometimes he runs so fast and so far that he forgets how to stop.

He takes a right and goes further inland, leaving it and the breeze of the Albert Dock behind. Melwood looms up ahead of him, steel strips and red brick. This is how it starts. Once upon a time, two young midfielders shook hands. And they lived happily, for a while.

The security guard lets him in with barely hidden elation. He parks his car and walks over to reception, where Carra said he'd meet him, but there isn't anyone there. Silence isn't good. It makes him think and rethink and reconsider. He leans against the counter and drums his fingers on the glass, turning around with the playful indignation he reserves for Carra when he hears footsteps behind him.

"Took you long enough - "

"Xabi?"

Xabi feels the words die in his throat. Steven looks exactly the same, if a little more well-worn, although all that does is underscore the way his eyes are rimmed with softness. He's wearing a tracksuit and SG is emblazoned with white over the bird. He's staring at Xabi with his mouth open and he looks like he's going to drop the clipboard in his hands anytime now.

Xabi swallows and stumbles around the edges, trying to cobble something together that won't break either of them. "I guess Carra didn't tell you," he finally manages.

Steven shakes his head dryly. "I guess not."

They remain staring at each other, quiet to the point that Xabi almost wants to turn around and leave. "Why are you here?" Steven finally asks, moving forward and leaving the clipboard on the counter.

Many, many things spring into Xabi's mind that he could say. Most of them are either melodramatic or pathetic or nauseatingly sentimental. So, instead, he chooses to run; but towards, not from.

"Hi." He takes a step and a breath and a dive. "I'm Xabi Alonso. I'm here about an assistant manager position."

A startled, half-disbelieving smile flicks across Steven's face and is gone too soon. "What makes you think you qualify?"

"You might not know this, but I used to play for Bayern Munich, so I know all their weaknesses. Neuer, for example. Just throw some Nutella onto the pitch."

Steven snorts despite himself. Xabi feels the bolts in his chest loosen.

"Fair. But why Liverpool?"

"Because - you might not know this, either - I used to play for Liverpool, so I fell in love."

"With the club?"

"Yes." Xabi raises an eyebrow. "Also, I like the style of the new manager."

Steven breaks into a grin without being able to help it. "Just his style?"

"Just that, unfortunately. And I do not mean in the fashion sense, either. That could use some work."

"That's the assistant manager's job," Steven scoffs.

"Well. Obviously we need one, then. Someone who will get us to the final."

And just like that, Xabi comes to a halt. He stands before Steven and Liverpool, naked and vulnerable and still, unmoving. Years and years fall off him and settle on the grass next to his feet, and he's twenty-three again in the same training ground waiting to introduce himself and for his captain to shake his hand. 

Steven leans forward and pulls him in, pressing his jaw close. Xabi feels his skin warm under his. No more leaving. No more having to leave. Steven says, "I know who you are."

 

 

 

This is how it starts:

Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso walk out together under the bright lights of Anfield in their sharp suits, red ties, Liverbirds over their chests. The Kop sings their names in turns. The red shirts are giddy with delight. Xabi allows himself to think, _I am home_ , _we are home_ , at last.

When they sit down in the dugout, Steven Gerrard holds Xabi Alonso's hand.

But no one needs to know that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> \- for March's football prompt! Follow it [hereeee](https://footballprompts.tumblr.com) (and do it, I want to read all the things)  
> \- t B v h sharon [lowkey wrote this before](https://footballprompts.tumblr.com/) and it's much much better than mine so go read that instead  
> \- all characterisation of fips and thomas stolen from [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5459807) and [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4819127) so im basically writing sabs fic shes already written (100 times better)!!! i seem to do this a lot  
> \- Title from [Bruce Springsteen](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SdJIpyiupJo), blame Julija as always  
> \- [Xabi's goal against Arsenal](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QV5eovFtkCY)  
> \- Liv beat Chelsea on pens in the CL semi-final 2007 & Stevie scored a late equaliser in the FA Cup final in 2006  
> \- [I was listening to the Eagles while writing this, soz mum](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tBJUTm9ez0g)  
> \- SPOT THE CARRAVILLE! idk what jamie was doing when xabs called but assume ur worst and it will probably be true ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯  
> \- DID U ALSO SPOT THE 'HE FINALLY MANGAES' PUN  
> \- hmu on literally every form of social media but here's my [tumblr](http://carraville.tumblr.com)  
> \- thanks for reading!! i will love u forever if u feel like commenting but if I have already promised u my eternal love then im sorry u just get virtual cookies


End file.
